


On the Keeping of Spermatophagos Species in Captivity

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Sex Toys, Body Horror, Nookworms, Other, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Spermatophagos ssp</i>., whose notable species include S. <i>minor, cataphractus</i>, and <i>vulgaris</i>, are a group of limbless* invertebrates that parasitize trolls, burrowing into the genital opening and feeding on seminal fluid. Despite the obvious biological risk of hosting such a parasite, most species of this genus have been domesticated and are readily available for sale under the crude but evocative term "nookworm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Keeping of Spermatophagos Species in Captivity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SybLaTortue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybLaTortue/gifts).



It is none of your compatriots' business whether or how you enjoy yourself concupiscently. They take far too much interest and always have, and you respond by protecting your boundaries in the one way you have found effective: you touch none of them, making a loud and adamant point of it any time the subject comes up. If they come to erroneous conclusions about your inclinations thanks to that, well, let them. You have no interest in touching them anyway, so for their purposes it makes no difference what the particulars of your celibacy are.

Which are that you don't touch other trolls but you have a perfectly ordinary libido and you exercise it on your own terms regularly. You have made do for quite a long time with manual stimulation, but now that the remains of the various human and troll societies have given rise to a combined culture, you have discovered that the other options are less far-fetched than they used to be. Something as simple as a penetrable silicone sheath would have been risque on Beforus; as in all things, the Alternians took concupiscent deviance to a much greater extreme.

You are browsing the Lascivious Arthropod website and you have never felt so simultaneously embarrassed and fascinated. The available… products? specimens? each have an individual page, providing photographs, expected full-size dimensions, and for some reason a name and fictionalized biography. It's absurd, and yet here you are, your cursor hovering over the "Buy" button.

Click.

* * *

>   
> _Spermatophagos ssp_., whose notable species include S. _minor, cataphractus_ , and _vulgaris_ , are a group of limbless* invertebrates that parasitize trolls, burrowing into the genital opening and feeding on seminal fluid. Despite the obvious biological risk of hosting such a parasite, most species of this genus have been domesticated and are readily available for sale under the crude but evocative term "nookworm."
> 
> * The cilia of _S. polydactylus_ are not true limbs - Ed.

* * *

Your new concupiscent aid arrives in a weather-tight package, the worm's cocoon suspended in slime and then sealed in plastic. You unseal it and release it into the slime of your own recuperacoon; the warmth will encourage it to split its cocoon and emerge. Technically you should have a separate aquarium to keep it in, but you haven't made the investment yet. It only makes sense to see whether you actually want to keep it before you take that step.

By the time you're ready to retire for the day, your nookworm has emerged from its pupation, undulating gently in the slime. It's smaller than you were led to believe from the website, but you'll live. Better too small than too large, isn't it? The model pictured on the website was brown, but yours is gold; you didn't spend extra to special order the color, though now you wish faintly that you had, if only so you could have been certain _not_ to get one in Captor coloration.

You brush the thought aside irritably. It's not like you bought it to look at it. When it's occupied you won't even be able to see what it looks like. The important part is how it feels, and you might be nervous about discovering the answer to that question but you're hardly going to back down now.

You strip off your clothing, setting it neatly aside, and climb into your recuperacoon. Time to find out if this was worth the investment, or if all the hyperbolic claims on the forums are only so much empty boasting.

Your nookworm reacts to the movement in the slime, tail end lashing as it seeks you out. You cup your hand around it and guide it between your thighs, your pump biscuit picking up speed. Your bulge is slightly swollen from the idea of what you're doing, and your nook is just damp enough that the worm should be able to find it.

It squirms into place, nuzzling at your slit as it orients itself. Your breathing comes a little faster. When it first touches your folds you shiver, unprepared for the lingering warmth that follows its touch. You spread your legs a little wider, reach down to part your folds with your fingers and encourage your nookworm to earn its name. It probes carefully, barely a finger's breadth at first as it starts to slip inside you. Even that is enough to make you groan. You're used to doing this by hand, and having the worm moving independently is new and strange.

As it slides deeper, it thickens, and the warm feeling intensifies. Your bulge slides free of its sheath to curl around your wrist, and you roll your hips as if that could encourage the nookworm to give you more. 

Perhaps it works, or perhaps you simply want what it was going to attempt anyway; it coils its way into you until you can barely feel its tail end protruding, and the warm pressure of its length against your shame globes makes you gasp. It writhes; you whimper. It teases your seedflap and you curse, your back arching, your nerves electrified by the unbearable intimacy of that touch. Pleasure rolls through you in waves, your globes contracting rhythmically as slurry spills from your flap, and you can feel the nookworm swell and contract as it drinks you in.

This is _perverse_. You clutch at the edges of your recuperacoon as a shudder wracks your entire body, equal parts delight and dismay. This is perverse and unnatural and it feels _wonderful_.

You hold on tight and let yourself be ruined.

* * *

You wake the next night with your bulge tangled around your hand and the nookworm already buried in you, thrashing insistently. It's jarring and unsettling to to have no chance to make the decision to indulge, and yet your body is trembling and tense and the heat between your legs is maddening. You ride it out, already only a few short minutes from orgasm when you wake, and when you ease the nookworm free of your body afterward it drifts contentedly down to the floor of your recuperacoon to curl up. You climb out while it's quiescent and go to your ablutions.

Clearly you should get it a separate tank, so you can keep it somewhere less intrusive and only use it when you have made a deliberate decision to do so. Being at the mercy of its whims sounds like something out of pornography, not the behavior of a reasonable troll.

* * *

Somehow you keep failing to get it a separate tank. You mean to; you plan to; it just never seems _urgent_. And in the meantime, you've never felt quite so wrung-out and deliciously relaxed as you do when subject to the nookworm's daily attentions. You've started actively looking forward to retiring for the day, knowing what awaits you. 

For its part the nookworm seems to be thriving like this. It's growing larger and redder with each passing night, well-fed on your slurry, closer to the dimensions promised by the website. That works out well, as you're becoming able to accommodate more with practice; as you adjust to wanting more, its increased girth provides.

Why would you even bother with the messy and problematic expectations of a troll partner when you can be satisfied like this on your own?

* * *

> S. vulgaris specimens in captivity often fertilize each other before pupation. Solitary adults are then capable of carrying the fertilized gametes for weeks or months before laying eggs apparently without a mate. Eggs are laid when the adult has secured a steady, plentiful source of food and can spare the necessary resources for embryonic development. A typical clutch ranges from six to ten eggs, though there have been unverified reports of twelve or even fourteen.

* * *

The day when you discover just how perverse you've become starts like any other lately. Dawn comes and you're undressing to retire to your recuperacoon, your body excited enough about the next steps that your bulge feels swollen, your nook damp. You're vaguely ashamed of the excitement humming in your nerves, and vaguely aggravated at the social conditioning that produces the shame.

It doesn't matter, not right now. You've spent all night crusading against injustice on various forums; now is time to reward yourself with the soothing pleasure you deserve. You ease yourself down into the slime, relaxing into its warmth. It's not long before you feel the exploratory curl of your nookworm wrapping around your ankle; you slide down further into the slime and spread your legs, waiting for it to recognize the trickle of your juices and come in search of its meal.

Its first teasing touch against the lips of your nook makes you groan, arching your back in an instinctive urge, pressing toward the source of pleasure. It traces the length of your slit, spreading heat in its wake, and when it starts to press into you, you shudder. The receptive nubs that line your nook contract with the sensation, one after another, as the nookworm slithers deeper. 

But somehow it seems to be holding back this time; the bulk of its body remains outside you even as it stretches itself thin to press deeper. You reach down to touch it, to see if a little coaxing will encourage it to fill you up as much as you've come to crave. It feels stiff and strangely swollen, the skin taut, and you begin to wonder if something is wrong.

It writhes under your hand, though, and a fresh rush of needy heat blossoms in your nook. Pheromone secretions, you know that, a mechanism they've developed to make their hosts receptive. Knowing it doesn't do anything to make it less intense. Your skin prickles and your toes curl, your bulge lashing desperately and catching at your wrist. Everything is wonderful.

The oddly taut bulk of the nookworm shifts under your hand and finally, finally you feel it start to stretch you out, a ripple of thicker bulk working its way deeper into your nook. Another rush of pheromones makes you moan, and then you feel a blunt pressure as something pushes past your seedflap and _into_ your gene bladder. You squirm, panting, and the nookworm contracts under your hand, rippling up through you to repeat the sensation.

It's depositing eggs, you realize. Some distant part of your mind is horrified and alarmed, but most of you is drowning in pheromones and sensation, spreading your legs wider and whining through your teeth. Another egg pushes up into your gene bladder and slurry trickles out of you in its wake. You've never been so thoroughly fucked open.

When you splay your hand across your belly you think you can feel the eggs there, a growing pressure filling you up in a way you shouldn't love as much as you do. You're being _used_ , and that's grotesque but it has you trilling helplessly as each new egg slides up into you and adds to the growing mass.

By the time it's finished with you, you're bloated and swollen, your bulge squirming helplessly with no room to retract, your mind a warm haze. You haven't had anything like a climax but it's hard to imagine wanting one right now, when your whole body is in this floating, blissful state.

A twinge of discomfort in your lower abdomen makes you haul yourself out of the slime eventually. The eggs shift inside you and you realize you don't know how to remove them. The care sheet that came with your nookworm didn't discuss this. You still feel traces of euphoria that you're starting to realize came from the pheromone secretions designed to make you receptive—but that's fading, and in its wake your discomfort and unease are coming to the fore.

More information will surely help you feel in control of the situation. You haul yourself to your husktop to see if you can find it.

* * *

> There is only a brief window of time between the deposit of eggs and their hatching. In order to survive, the host troll must expel the eggs during this period. Unlike the fluid-feeding adults, the larvae are meat eaters; when they hatch, they begin to devour their host from the inside.*
> 
> * The larvae gain their color from the parent's food source/deposit site; thus, most commercial specimens range from maroon through yellow. - Ed.

* * *

You stare at the screen in horror, your skin crawling, the weight in your belly suddenly terrifying. You need them out. You need them out _right now_. The article makes it sound possible but it doesn't say _how_ , and you frantically type your query into the search bar: h9w t9 expel n99kw9rm eggs. The resulting instructable is pornographic.

The Lascivious Arthropod forum members concur, though; there's a thread dedicated to people's experiences of passing the eggs when they've found themselves in the situation you're now facing. There's a warning in the first message of the thread telling people not to get themselves into this situation in the first place, and stressing that the site accepts no responsibility for people going ahead with oviposition anyway. The later commenters all tell the same story: you need to climax, hard, to dislodge them from your gene bladder and push them out with your slurry.

The problem is that being horrified is not conducive at all to arousal. The problem is that doesn't matter in the least. You find a pail you can kneel over, your hands shaking, your gastric sac in knots. You take hold of your bulge, thumbing the tip, squeezing the length as you work it between your hands. The last of the nookworm's euphoria dissolves as you handle your flesh, and the sensations are almost grindingly unpleasant. Your bulge feels simultaneously too sensitive to touch and not sensitive enough to get you off. You grit your teeth and keep going.

Arousal builds slowly, uncomfortably, wrung out of you by sheer stubbornness as you try not to think about the consequences should you fail. Your bulge hurts and your seedflap clenches and absurdly you wish you could use your nookworm for this, never mind that it's the reason you're in this state to begin with. You flex the muscles of your lower abdomen, straining for the climax that doesn't want to happen. Your lubricating fluid drips slowly into the pail, evidence that despite how it feels you're getting _somewhere_.

The orgasm that you finally force out of your body is painful, your seedflap hitching and contracting around the nookworm's eggs as you force them out of your gene bladder. You bear down, pushing, and the eggs plop into the bucket one after another, slippery and jellylike. You don't let go of your bulge until the swelling in your abdomen is entirely gone, even though it's beyond any sort of pleasure by then and into pure overstimulated distress. You need them _gone_ , and when the last one gets stuck just inside the lips of your nook you reach up inside yourself with your fingers to coax it out.

For a long moment you just kneel over the bucket, panting, aware that there are tears drying on your cheeks and an atrocious mess running down your thighs. You palpate your abdomen carefully, feeling for any sign of a foreign mass still inside you, but no. You got them all. You ease yourself down off the pail, your legs shaking, your hands worse. And you can't help yourself—you look.

The eggs nestle in a heap in the bottom of the pail, translucent jelly around the red of the larvae. One of them is squirming, tearing open as the larva inside seeks a meal. You think you can see a quick flash of tiny bared teeth. But they're all in the pail. None of them are in you. You did it.

You're safe.

* * *

You need to get rid of them.

You should by any sane troll's standards (though you censure yourself for such judgmental language) just kill the larvae off. They feed on trolls. They nearly fed on _you_. The fact that Alternians domesticated and bred them is appalling.

Despite that quite reasonable conclusion, you haven't killed them. You haven't been able to bring yourself to do it. You've finally gotten a holding tank, and you've put the larvae in it. You watch them swim through the thin slime, crawling over each other, tangling with each other in occasional struggles for dominance. They make short work of the scraps of meat you drop into the tank for them; it makes you queasy, and yet here they are, still.

You need to get rid of them. It would be absurd for you to keep a dozen of them, whether or not you plan to keep using one for its intended prurient purpose. And if you don't intend to kill them, there's really only one other option. You open the relevant page in your browser, click through to the forums, and start a new thread:

F9r Sale: Vulgaris larvae, freshly 6red, sh9uld 6e ready t9 ship in tw9 weeks. 6right red.


End file.
